


Teamwork

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Valkyrie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: Bobby sends Sam and Dean on a case to hunt down a valkyrie.





	Teamwork

**Author's Note:**

> Casefic commission. :>
> 
> Excuse my non-existent fluency in all things Viking.

* * *

 

The sight is grizzly, and it takes a moment for Dean to swallow down the nasty feeling that crawls up his throat. In the room ahead of them, which is as run-down as every other part of this abandoned hospital, sits a woman weaving. Her hands are bloodied so thickly that Dean can see and smell the black clumps clinging to her skin, and the deep crimson runs all the way up her elbow, where the casual, unconcerned movements of her hands leave streaks onto the sides of her summer dress. Her long, gently curling yellow hair rests heavy over her shoulder, and her fingers grip a human intestine, catching it in her loom like regular thread, the blood and slime that covers it clinging to her fingers as she moves them along the organ’s texture. A seemingly endless amount of offal rests on her lap, wetting her thighs and her dress with blackish blood, and from there it snakes down onto the floor where the rest of it piles up like a sight borrowed from a nightmare.

Sam’s hand grasps Dean’s sleeve. He looks at him and nods, and they sink back and away from the doorway. The air changes - outside the room, the smell of copper and filth is much lighter, and the reigning tone is the smell that attaches to thick gatherings of dust and old unkempt buildings. The light outside is fading: the grimy window appears to be a portal to a foreign realm entirely painted with the hues of blue and deep faded shades of greyish green. One of the windows is ever so slightly ajar, signaling the entryway of intruders who came here before. Dean wonders if some of them are now part of the grotesque tapestry the valkyrie is weaving, or if that honour was reserved solely for her main pool of victims.

The thought, regardless, floods his fingertips with cold. Beside him, Sam runs his finger down his arm, reminding him that he’s there, and they’ve got to make a decision.

Dean nods.

 

* * *

 

A few days earlier, the sun was rising over South Dakota through a thin mist cascading over the landscape like the veil covering a bride’s features on the day of her wedding. At least that’s what it reminded Dean of as he settled on the porch, his legs stretched all the way down to the ground with his heels digging in the gravel of the path ahead. He could smell summer and the fading dew lingering on the blades of grass and gathering like a glistening blanket over the metal of the rusted cars littering the yard and piling up in the junkyard just a few feet away from the house, each adding its own derelict tone into the morning’s scentscape. The steam rising from his cup of coffee joined the lingering mist as if naturally a part of it, dispersing into the scenery as Dean drank, his eyes upon the view that the early morning’s light tinted with that fragile shade of pale baby blue as the sun was still struggling to break through the horizon to begin the day. Behind him, however, he could hear ceramic knocking against a firm surface: knowing that he was alone for the time being, but so close to two people he not only loved but considered his family, made his heart twist and his mind rest at ease at once. The window to the kitchen was open to let in the morning air, stirring the dusty book-and-gunpowder scented air indoors, and through that window, the sounds of Sam and Bobby beginning their day just ever so slightly behind Dean’s own schedule was as precious to Dean as the singing of the early birds in the trees and the sound of wind rustling through the leaves just so many feet away from him.

For the time being, he fit this place like he rarely fit anywhere else, his backside pressed into the cold-feeling planks underneath and his bare feet sticking up into the moist air, fingers of one hand wrapped around his warm mug and the other leaning to the dusty porch for support. His hair was still sticking up and messy, and the taste of toothpaste added a certain bitterness into the coffee he drank, and overall, if there was ever a moment that Dean Winchester felt domesticated and tamed and tied up to a certain place instead of belonging to the open roads and endless stretches of unchanging rural American landscape, it had to be this one.

He was lost in that feeling for some minutes before the door behind him was carefully pushed open. He recognised Bobby’s heavier footsteps - he stepped like an older man with the weight of his age and experience resting on each movement, whereas Sam still walked like a young panther, always ready to pounce on unexpecting prey or freeze silently in anticipation of danger. Dean wondered if he was somewhere in the middle of the two of them; he often felt like a tank stood between the danger and those he protected, ready to take the blow meant to down a victim less fit to weather it than him, and if it could be heard from the way he walked, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

”Got a call last night,” Bobby told him, lowering himself onto a chair behind Dean but giving him enough space that he could still retain the sense of solitude even in company, ”Didn’t want to wake you boys up, but I think you could take this job for me.”

Dean nodded, aware that Bobby could only see the back of his head. He lifted his mug up to his lips again, his body suddenly tense as if longing for a fight - just the thought of a hunt got him all wired up and eager to move. He was like a well-oiled machine in that sense, always prepared to do what he’d been built for, and the promise of purpose made him warm up and shiver with excitement.

”What is it?”

”My contact says it’s a valkyrie, but we haven’t had one of those in America since the late 80s. Some of them came with the Scandinavian immigrants, mostly from Norway and Sweden, some from Denmark, along with other colonialists, but they weren’t many and most of them - well, they vanished, not sure why. Maybe they were hunted, maybe they went back; either way, they’re mostly a problem for the countries they spawned in, some few for the English, Germans, and so on.”

Dean let the thought sink in. Then he twisted around, his other hand taking more of his weight and leaning it into the porch.

”A valkyrie? Like a, a battle angel?”

A hundred epic images of Vikings dying in battle crossed his mind, but he’d always been less interested in the carnage and more drawn to the pretty, badass woman depicted in the middle of it all. It was impossible to say the picture didn’t appeal to him. To his excitement, Bobby nodded.

”They’re monsters the same as any other,” the man reminded him, but his eyes were twinkling, likely in response to the interest Dean couldn’t and wouldn’t cover to save face, ”They appear human in most aspects until you get too close, at which point they may or may not sprout a pair of wings and grow fangs and claws long enough to tear a man’s throat out. This particular one does what you’d expect it to be doing, really, which is why I’m not saying it can’t be a valkyrie - it’s hunting down war veterans, people who’ve been to battle and come back home thinking they can move on. It’s giving them what it can’t give people on American soil these days; a hero’s death in combat. It gets these men and women into armed fights and makes sure they lose them so that it can claim their souls.”

”How many?”

”Many enough for it to make a case. It ain’t just a couple PTSD’d vets lashing out, that’s for sure.”

Dean turned back. He was quiet for a while, letting the information sink in; in the sky, the sun was now peeking over the treetops, shining as a blurry white-golden sphere through the dispersing mist.

”You told Sam already?” he asked then.

”I ran it by him, yeah.”

Dean nodded.

”It won’t be a safe job,” Bobby warned him after a brief silence, ”You fit his type, you know. You’re both warriors in the sense that it cares about - you fight for a cause and you kill for a cause. That’s all it needs to target you.”

”So how do we kill it?” Dean asked, the information neutral in tone and meaning to him - he’d been in danger before, directly and indirectly. The thought of walking into a hunt where he could become the main target neither scared nor unsettled him.

”With a runed Viking blade. Only a few of those in America, but my contact along the way to Colorado can arrange one for you. Carve the thing’s heart out and stab it for good measure, that should get rid of it nicely enough. The problem with the location is that you need to bury the remains the old Norse way - lay them in a boat, set it on fire and push it to the open waters.”

”Would a lake do?”

Bobby made a sound of agreement.  
”As far as I know, as long as it’s water it’s fit for the job,” he said.

Dean let the thought simmer for a while before nodding again.  
”We can do it.”

”That’s what your brother said you would say.”

A small smile flashed across Dean’s features.  
”Well, I suppose he knows me pretty well,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Rugged mountains broke off the skyline wherever they drove in Colorado. The road through the state led them towards a small city cradled between the continent’s rough, sky-touching vertebrae, its buildings and roads humbled by the massive landscape surrounding it. It looked like an ordinary town and buzzled sleepily in the mid-day sun when they finally arrived there, an ancient blade wrapped in rags hidden amongst their usual belongings. They found a motel to stay in, had a proper meal, and set to business; passing themselves off as military, they uncovered as much information about the victims as they could. Four men, three women - Dean, having somehow expected that the valkyrie would only be gathering souls belonging to men, was oddly sated to find out that it considered women as equally heroic to men, even if it meant that those women would then become its victims just the same. Sam, having swallowed a library in his lifetime, seemed offended when he voiced this thought. For the next half an hour, Dean couldn’t escape an extensive lesson on Nordic mythology, through which he learned, it seemed, everything about sex equality in the Viking culture, specifically that while it was uncertain if women had taken parts in raiding or war in their society, they’d held great respect and power in their communities, and could even own land - in essence, that a sexist valkyrie wouldn’t have made sense in the context of the culture it originated in. Throughout this lecture, Dean was busy making sure that no trace remained of his double-bacon burger.

What they learned upon visiting the families of the perished soldiers was that at least two of them had Nordic heritage. The first victim had been one-third Norwegian, the second half-Swedish. The five remaining soldiers had returned from deployment with what one could only describe as honour - they were all decorated and well-respected, and three of them had done something notably heroic during their time in war. It was clear that not one of them had lacked respect and love back home, either; Sam’s skills at soothing distraught loved ones came in much need on more than just a single occasion throughout the day.

The next day, they went sniffing around any and all places the victims had had in common. The town’s center, at least three suspicious bars, and a park were all lurked through and cleared of evidence, which wasn’t in abundance. There were witnesses to interview, however; people who’d been there, or heard about, the fatal conflicts the veterans had gotten themselves into.

A common factor in most of the witness accounts was a blonde woman, whom two witnesses in particular described as eerily emotionless at the scene of death, and one as being almost as if thrilled or enamoured by the sight of excessive blood and violence. These witness accounts painted the woman as a tall and blue-eyed beauty with a near ethereal, serene sort of an aura surrounding her all the way up to the point where the fight would break loose. Each of the witnesses were visibly uneasy as they described her watching the deaths occur - as if just recalling her presence at the time was enough to make them feel as if something about her just wasn’t right. Sam agreed that they’d all sensed her otherness at the time; having been verifiably present at most the crime scenes, it was almost impossible that she wasn’t the valkyrie they were looking for.

After a long day’s digging, however, they had no name or any other means of identifying their target, and they settled back in their motel rooms uneasy and plagued by the descriptions of bloodlust on the woman’s features.

 

* * *

 

Sam nods his head towards the corridor to the left of the room inside which the valkyrie sits weaving. Dean follows him, their footsteps nearly inaudible in the dust covering the floors, and they settle behind the corner, crouch down and exchange looks. In Sam’s hand, the runed blade shimmers strangely: it looks almost ethereal, like it’s part of the same world the valkyrie belongs to.

”We need a distraction. You or me?”

”You’ve got the blade,” Dean says, giving Sam a meaningful, if a little sad, smile.  
He’ll play bait and trust his brother with the rest.

Sam nods. He grabs Dean’s shoulder and smiles at him, mouthing _you’ve got this_ before pushing him back, and Dean bounces up on to his feet and shifts away from Sam. He gives the hallway a calculating look, marking down quickly all the potential that he can find in it. Most of the things that once made it a waiting room have been moved away and repurposed, but an oddly naked-looking metal bench still sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by a few empty, moist-looking cardboard boxes and an upturned chair, and an old calendar decorates the wall behind what Dean assumes used to be an info desk. He moves across the space quickly, like a shadow crossing the doorway. The valkyrie’s room is lit with old-fashioned wax candles, but Dean hopes she doesn’t notice him moving past her in his dark clothes; she doesn’t seem to stop her work, but Dean doesn’t look back as he throws over the bench and then quickly disappears behind the info desk, leaving the room empty. He dares to peer across the desk’s corner to see Sam’s ever darker figure lurking behind the corner - the light outside is dying quickly, too quickly for Dean’s liking. Without it, if anything goes wrong now, they’ll be fighting this thing blind.

Disappearing behind the desk again, this time for real, Dean listens to the silence that seems to ring with the echoes of the metal bench hitting the ground. He barely heard it hit the ground before, too caught up with making it into hiding quickly and safely, but now his mind is full of that loud noise even as his ears desperately try to pick apart the sounds of the valkyrie moving. Then he hears it: her footsteps against the dusty floor, much louder than his own like she has no fear or concern in her mind despite the circumstances. She enters the waiting room and stops by the fallen bench, and then Sam’s moving. For a split second, Dean hopes to hear the creature’s dying gasp as the blade sinks into its chest, perhaps a screech, but it’s never that easy - instead, he hears Sam grunting with pain, then a thud as he falls back.

And then the screech comes. It’s a dreadful sound, as if split into multiple voices screaming. He’s already pulling up with his gun in hand, aiming it at the source of the voice, but what he sees when he faces the room stills him momentarily. There are wings - dark, long wings like an eagle’s - spread across the room. The valkyrie’s turning for Sam, her fingers ending in long claws, and from her loom, she’s brought one of her long silvery swords; it flashes in the dimming light as she swings it up with the intent of burying it inside Sam. Dean’s there in a flash. His body hits the valkyrie with all his weight, sending her off balance. The sword comes down, but it hits the bench on the floor while Sam stumbles back on his feet. He looks disoriented, but the blade is still firmly in his grip, and he moves out of the valkyrie’s reach to recover. The valkyrie moves like she’s dancing as she repositions between them. Dean aims his gun at her, not knowing how much power it grants him - if any at all - but the valkyrie seems to consider it a threat nonetheless, so he keeps it up.

She’s beautiful, just like the pictures portraying her kind. Long, strong limbs; long hair. Strikingly blue eyes. Fangs like hooks behind her upturned lips. A pointy nose with flaring nostrils: she looks ready to kill, as if she’s only choosing which one of them to down first.

She snarls and turns for Dean; Dean shoots.

For a moment, the room glows with white and the sound of gunfire is the only thing any of them can hear.

 

* * *

 

The day before Sam woke Dean up early, his hands full, carrying one steaming cup and a white, grease-stained paper bag. He gave them to him, wished him a good morning in that busy manner he always did when he was about to change subject immediately afterwards. Now loaded with breakfast he hadn’t asked for, Dean tried to keep his eyes open and convince his mind to wake up with him, to get up to date with all the information suddenly bombarding him straight out of sleep, with little luck by the time that Sam sat beside him with his laptop in tow.

”Her name is Sigrun.”

”What? How do you know?”

”Drink your coffee,” Sam told him, and Dean shrugged, bringing his cup to his lips in idle obedience.

The laptop’s screen showed Bobby’s face. Beside him sat a younger man with a scraggly light beard, and if Dean was right about it, he was the owner of the computer at the other end of the video call. Bobby wouldn’t have known how to operate one, at least not well enough to pull up Skype.

”Who’s that?” Dean asked the screen, and Bobby’s mouth twitched.

”An expert. Sam told me last night that you needed some help identifying your suspect, so I called the one man I know who might be able to help us out.”

Dean’s brows lifted. He turned towards Sam, who tilted his head as if to throw off the voicelessly presented question.

”Didn’t we?” he asked, and Dean drank again.

”I’ve tracked her,” the man with the scraggly beard said, and his Swedish accent made it clear that he wasn’t native to the States, ”She came from Skåne. Bobby sent me her picture, and I came right away. I knew she would kill again.”

”You know her?”

”She escaped hunters just barely in our country years ago. We were on her heels but could not find her after she came here. I followed her, but gave up eventually when I could not find her again.”

”She’s got an alias these days. We’ve done some digging,” Bobby continued after him.

”How much have you guys slept?” Dean asked; despite the coffee and now the donut that Sam had brought him, he still didn’t feel very awake at all.

”We haven’t,” Bobby stated simply, ”We’re hunters, and we’re working a case.”

”I thought me and Sam were working it,” Dean noted, and on the screen, Bobby had to suppress a smile.

”She’s involved in an exhibit at the local gallery there. They’re putting up a show about the Viking expansion. No wonder she was drawn to the place. Her name these days is Anna Kristiansen, God knows where she came from, there’s no trace of her since she set foot on American soil, but luckily there’s a photo of her in a newspaper covering the story. She gave some tidbits about the exhibit,” Bobby told them.

”Seems like being in touch with her roots made her miss them,” the Swedish man said with a grimace, ”Reminded her what it was like before. No monster can resist its nature forever.”

”We’ll find her,” Sam promised, ”Thanks, guys.”

”Go to bed, dammit,” Dean told them, and the last thing he saw before the call ended was Bobby’s dramatic eye roll.

They exchanged looks; it seemed to Dean that Sam had never looked quite this energetic.

”Let me wake up first, alright?” he told him in a desperate voice, prompting a short laugh.

”Eat fast.”

 

* * *

 

The gunshot fades, but immediately following the light shot out of the gun’s barrel there’s another flash, this one reflecting from the sword’s blade. Dean can feel the edge cut into his arm even as he jumps aside, and fresh, warm blood wets the sleeve of his jacket even though he can’t seem to register any pain. Still recovering from the injury, he isn’t quite quick enough to dance around the fist that follows it; the valkyrie’s strike hits him squarely in the face, sending him back and over the info desk. He gasps, vision flashing in and out, and he can feel the skin of his cheek gaping open from multiple places at once where the monster clawed at him. He isn’t sure anymore if he landed the shot, either, or if it simply had no effect on the creature - either way, he can’t stop moving now, or he’ll be cut down for good next. Gasping for air, he forces his aching body to roll off the table, and he lands on the floor, taking a few long steps away from where he assumes the enemy stands. When he looks back, Sam’s launching a strike: he has a good shot at the valkyrie, but the creature twists around and slams her massive wing directly into Sam’s chest, sending the blade on the ground and Sam into a wall.

Without thinking, Dean charges after the blade. He’s near it, close enough to grab it, when something extremely heavy and hard hits him in the back, driving all air from his lungs and forcing his body on the floor. Suddenly he’s blind and he can’t breathe, but it can’t stop him from reaching for the blade on the ground somewhere so tauntingly close to him - it’s the only lifeline they have, the only chance at winning this fight. At the same time, he can hear the valkyrie stepping beside him - can hear her bending down, crouching, and picking up the blade. Somewhere close by, Sam lets out a choked sound.

”You really think you’ve got what it takes to kill me?” Sigrun speaks in a soft voice that yet still sounds partially like a bird of prey imitating human language, ”You? Who are you?”

”I’m Dean Winchester. You might have,” Dean starts but has to take a moment to drag in more air, ”heard of me.”

His vision’s slowly coming back to him. He feels the valkyrie’s eyes examining him as he backs away from her, moving closer to the wall nearby.

”Yes,” she says, uncaring that he’s moving away from her, ”I’ve heard of the Winchesters.”

Her steps are light despite the immense weight of the large sword she’s carrying in the hand that isn’t gripping the only weapon that can take her down. In her chest, a black hole marks the spot where Dean’s bullet pierced her, as precisely as he thought it should have. There’s no blood coming out of it however, and the lack of visible flesh makes it look like she’s hollow inside. Perhaps she is - the thought is unsettling.

”It is my honour to be the one to take your souls from this world.”

”Keep dreaming,” Dean chuckles tensely, but his eyes now follow the sword.

Behind it, he can see Sam, and Sam’s looking at him in return. Then, the younger brother’s eyes turn towards the upturned chair - he makes sure that Dean looks at it before looking back at him and nodding. Dean’s lips twitch: he’ll just have to keep this thing talking for a while longer.

He faces the valkyrie once more and clears his throat.

”Don't think you've earned that honour.”

”Have I not?” Sigrun chuckles.  
Her long finger, and the long claw at its tip, drag along the sword’s hilt.  
”Do you know who I am? What I am?”

”You’re a coward; you ran from your home instead of standing your ground there.”

”We’ve been here before, before _your_ people ever stepped foot upon this land. We traded with the native peoples of this place. We built here. We travelled here, over and over again, while your ancestors still thought the earth was flat and the ocean would end, rushing like a waterfall down into the void. I ran nowhere; I simply returned.”

Sam’s on his feet. His fingers grip the legs of the chair firmly, then lift it off the ground soundlessly. Dean doesn’t look at him: he stares firmly into the blank eyes of the valkyrie standing in front of him.

”I’ve seen warriors before, but they’ve all submitted to me. How does it feel like... looking into the fire, Dean Winchester?”

Her shape glows. It starts like an aura painting her outlines into the darkness, then grows, with sparks leaving her body as it ignites. She burns, her center as bright as the sun, and it scorches Dean’s eyes; he doesn’t see Sam approaching anymore. All he can do is turn away, and he can hear the sword as it rushes through the air when the valkyrie raises it. The world is all white, and he waits for it all to end there - and then, suddenly, the fire goes out as Sam strikes her in the back. The valkyrie lets out another shriek, moving away from Dean and bringing down the sword in the other direction instead, trying to hit Sam who counters the blade with his chair. At impact, the chair flies through the air and hits the place where Dean sat just moments ago, but now he’s moving again, sending his body with all his strength into the valkyrie’s body.

The blade falls again, and he dives after it, soon gripping it firmly in his hand.

”Ready to see Valhalla for yourself, bitch?” he asks and drives the blade directly into the valkyrie’s chest.

There’s no sound as she falls on the ground.

 

* * *

 

The lake is calm and quiet as they move the valkyrie’s carved-up body into a boat and wet it all with gasoline. Her pierced heart rests on top of her chest, her hands covering it, when they push the boat into the lake. It’s Sam who throws the lighter in there, and they stumble back on the shore when the boat ignites. It keeps sailing forwards, however: it won’t get far before the waves start bringing it back onshore, but for now, Sigrun’s still on the way towards the mountains that seem to grow out of the opposite shore. Black smoke rises towards the sky, and this early in the morning, the world is quiet. Dean remembers sitting on the porch of Bobby’s house and wishes he was there now - everything seems strangely hollow now despite the victory they’ve earned through pain and hard work. He feels the padding over his cut-up cheek, then runs his fingers over his bandaged arm; he’s aching all over, and Sam, while not cut, has to be feeling the fight as well.

They look at each other and Sam smiles at him, then turns around and waves him to follow. They sit on the beach, and Sam brings them beers from the car.

”I’m sure they - Vikings - used to drink at funerals,” he tells Dean with a chuckle, ”I don’t know this for a fact, but it seems fitting to celebrate a fallen warrior with a couple beers.”

”I guess this is as good an excuse as any,” Dean agrees.

They don’t speak more as the flames die out. The boat doesn’t sink, and it doesn’t burn, but it’s scorched and blackened by the time it starts slowly making its way back towards the shore.

”What do we do with that?” Sam asks him, and Dean shrugs.

”I guess we have to pull it in the middle with another boat and try to make it sink somehow,” he says, grimacing, ”Either way, one of us will probably have to get wet before we can sleep today.”

”Seems like it.”

There’s another silence, this one much shorter. Then Sam chuckles - he runs his fingers through his hair before letting out a deep sigh.

”I guess it’ll have to be me,” he says then in a defeated voice.

Dean nods.  
”Days like this - I’m damn glad I’ve got a brother, Sammy.”

”Yeah. Your turn comes next. Trust me, I’ll remember. And this is just because you were slow enough to get cut, so don’t get too smug about it.”

”Still. I’ll enjoy every moment of seeing you in there. I bet the water’s cold.”

”Keep talking and I’m pulling you down with me.”

Dean laughs.  
”You better not.”

With that, they both lift up their bottles, and the first rays of sunlight peeking over the mountains reflect from them as they meet in the middle.

”Good job tonight, Sam.”

”You too.”

 


End file.
